Friday, April 9, 2010

Little me, in the shroud,
stone still for a while,
and then, alive,
tumbling, trembling,
falling, elsewhere in time,
and place and reason.
Some world's found a need for me again,
and I unconsciously
find myself obliging.

What I wrote above
is what I remember:
The only bit I remember
the rest is a journey for purpose
clouded with struggles
of the most mundane kind.

Questions, questions are all I have
at the moment, and what
the people say counts for little;
I don't know much myself
but if only that little tiny shimmering
strand of memory weaves
itself bigger, and larger
and stronger through time,
and reaches me here, stuck
in a web of part-wonder, part-curiosity
and mostly misplaced ambition,
I'd have something to
show me the way.

I lie in wait.

edit: while this was written in as sincere a manner as is possible at the time of writing, I find myself wincing considerably re-reading it twice. Yeowch.

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